


AFTER HOURS

by TheLexFiles



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: A what if scenario, Apex Legends Quest: The Broken Ghost, Bangalore x Loba, F/F, NSFW, Porn With Plot, This happens after Chapter 7: The Shattered Spirit, also this is low key like, bangaloba, lobalore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25246405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLexFiles/pseuds/TheLexFiles
Summary: Anita cannot sleep with the thought that one of their own is the mole that ratted out Loba’s – and their own – plans to the damn sim. And now, Loba has gone MIA – and God knows if Revenant has found her by this point. Two of her own have already been hurt in the name of the mission, but Loba’s blood could be on the mole’s hands at this point.Hers too.It isn’t fair.
Relationships: Anita Williams / Loba, Loba Andrade/Bangalore | Anita Williams
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	AFTER HOURS

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this fic initially inspired by the events in the 7th Chapter of 'The Broken Ghost' quest, "The Shattered Spirit", in which Bangalore tries to stop Loba from leaving, admitting that she never wanted Loba to die. I took a while to write this due to many distractions (oops), so Chapter 8 was unlocked. But, I want to think of this fic as a "What if" AU after Ch7's events, as in, Loba decides to seek out Anita's help rather than Anita taking initiative to go rescue / save Loba. 
> 
> This is also just Porn With Plot, but I wanted to contribute to the growing Lobalore fandom before the final chapter drops. For the record, I was shipping this from the title screen.
> 
> Trust us lesbians when we will tell you there are Vibes. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

**AFTER HOURS**

_Loba starts to leave, but Bangalore stops her._

“Hold up.” Anita states, arm outstretched to Loba’s shoulder. The other woman stops, turns her head. Determination, but fear lingers in the depths of her _baby browns_. They exchange a look before Loba finally speaks. Anita drops her hand.

“You’re not seriously going to act as if this wasn’t what you wanted all along.” It had been straightforward since Loba’s arrival that Sergeant 1st Class Williams was _not_ happy with her explosive entrance, nor with the way she _needed_ their help to retrieve the artefact, and the lies she had to tell to get them to help in the first place. Yet, there’s a plea behind that touch, that look.

“I didn’t want you dead. This whole plan went sideways.” Anita’s voice drops to something soft, something meant for her ears only, despite the others standing at the other end of the bar, watching on with few cares for Loba Andrade’s _fate_.

“Don’t worry too much,” Loba says finally, taking a few steps forward. She still holds that P2020 in her hand like its her own last resort; there’s a reason she doesn’t _trust_. “I’d hate to see you lose sleep over sacrificing one of your _own_ for the greater good… Sergeant.”

Without another word, Loba removes her bracelet, and tosses it out the window. In the blink of an eye, she disappears, leaving Anita behind without a second thought.

* * *

The red LED lights of the clock read out 0103 hours. The city lights in Solace filter in through the open window, even at this late hour. Sheets are pushed back and wrinkled – a sign of restlessness. Anita cannot sleep with the thought that _one_ of their own is the mole that ratted out Loba’s – and _their own_ – plans to the damn sim. And now, Loba has gone MIA – and God knows if Revenant has found her by this point. Two of her _own_ have already been hurt in the name of the mission, but Loba’s blood could be on the _mole_ _’s_ hands at this point.

Hers too.

It isn’t fair.

_I should_ _’ve done more_.

With a defeated sigh, Anita throws her legs over the edge of her bed and rises to her feet. There’s no point in trying to sleep when her head is too full of guilt and regret; even if Loba had pissed her off with her grand explosive entrance and schmoozing with the corporate overlords who gave her the title of Legend, the woman didn’t deserve a death at the hands of a simulacrum in cold blood.

Calloused palms hit the floor of her apartment, putting herself in the bridge position before starting a series of push ups. If anything, exhausting herself can bring about sleep faster than just trying to lay there and hope it comes. She goes until her arms ache, losing count after the first _hundred_. Rising with a deep exhale, Anita wipes the sweat from her brow, padding her way to the kitchen for a glass of water, minding the way through her dark apartment. As the tap runs and fills her glass, the wind lightly lifts the curtains at the window; the cool breeze makes the goosebumps raise along her skin between her tank top and shorts. Anita rinses the glass and sets it upside down in the dish rack to let it dry. Suddenly, she hears it – the subtle, yet _familiar_ ring of a metallic object making a landing and then –

The thud of high heeled feet in the middle of her apartment.

There’s a pistol kept in the bedside drawer with a single round chambered _just in case_ any of the Outlands’ undesirables ever tried to break into this apartment, but Anita doesn’t make a move toward it. Instead, her feet feel heavy, stuck to the linoleum of the kitchenette.

“Loba, what the hell?”

“Oh, you’re awake. Good.”

Anita reaches for the light, finally revealing the pair of them – Loba, still dressed but no worse for wear when she left Mirage’s bar in much the same fashion, and Anita, dressed in sleep clothes with flushed cheeks.

“How the hell did you find my apartment?”

“I pay attention, you know. Glad you left the window open, at least. Made this a _lot_ easier.”

Anita steps a little closer, arms folding over her chest. Part of her wishes she’d shut the damn window, but another part of her knows it might not have mattered anyway against a renowned _thief_.

“You’re still alive. Surprised you haven’t left the planet yet.”

“For now. That _demonio_ could be tracking me, waiting for any moment of weakness and I’m not about to let him have one. Admittedly, you came to mind first; I doubt you’d let _him_ just walk in here. At least, not without a fight.” Loba paces a bit on the spot. She appears almost haggard under the lamplight. Everything still _looks_ perfect, except for the dull, dark circles beneath her eyes. She hasn’t _slept_ , just like Bloodhound had advised.

_Damn_.

“And you expect me to, what? Just let you stay here until this blows over?” Anita’s brow raises. Sure, her sympathies had become known earlier, but this was her home. They aren’t _friends_ ; technically, this is an invasion of privacy. “If you’re looking for company, I’m not some kind of _call girl_.”

“Please, you’d make an _awful_ call girl with that attitude,” Loba retorts. “You and I both know I have a target on my back unless we end the _demonio_ once and for all. Until then, I…” She sighs then, peering down at the bracelet around her wrist, twirling it with her free hand. “I need a _friend_ , Anita.”

_That_ _’s a first_.

“A friend?” That’s one way to put it. “After the shit you pulled, that’s a big ask.” Her arms stay folded, back pressing against the wall. She’s not comfortable with the unexpected ‘invitation’ into her private space, let alone caught off guard in the middle of the night. The ‘tough soldier’ front isn’t present without her gear, without her weapons, and without being in the field where she’s the expert.

This is personal.

“I know it is. And if I felt I could trust anyone else…”

Trust? _Trust?_

“I guess that phrase ‘the enemy of my enemy is friend’ rings true for you, huh?” Anita’s skepticism is still present in her tone, her body language. In her years, this is the strangest encounter she’s had in the Outlands, and yet, she isn’t saying ‘no.’

“Don’t make me beg,” Loba speaks up again – between a rock and a hard place, she hopes Sergeant Williams has at least an _ounce_ more of sympathy. “It’s not a good look for me.”

At this, Anita laughs under her breath, shaking her head. Of _all_ people looking for shelter, it had to be the one she wants – _wanted_ – nothing to do with. “You’re lucky I can’t just leave a _damsel_ in distress.”

It’s all she has to say before Loba lets out an audible sigh of relief. _Thank God._

“I’ll have to find you and your _chivalry_ a gift after all this,” Loba grins; this is only a start, and likely to last only for the remainder of the night, but it’s _something_ where she can take a breath, maybe even put that pistol down, hell, maybe even _sleep_ if she gets the chance.

“Yeah. You owe me. Big time.” Anita’s attention turns back to her kitchen. Another glass of water, for herself – and for Loba. The other woman might have gotten on her nerves and under her skin one too many times to count, but she was raised better than to be _rude_ to a guest. She offers the glass in her hand and Loba accepts it.

“Thanks,” Slowly, she finds her way to the sole couch in the ‘living room’ area of Anita’s apartment. There’s not much here; hardly any personal effects. Just simply _spartan_. Even for a veteran of the Games, Anita lives like she doesn’t plan on staying, or really calling it **home**. Her eyes fall back to Anita herself, though. She still looks _uncomfortable_ , and it’s not just for the fact she’s wearing a tank top and shorts.

She’s not used to company.

“You can sleep on the couch,” Anita states plainly. Her body has that pleasant muscle ache from working out, however briefly. The likelihood of Revenant tracking Loba here, of all places is slim – Loba isn’t stupid, either. Her tracks had to have been covered before deciding to throw herself in through the window.

“Oh, you’re not going to stay up, and keep me company? No sleepovers where we paint each other’s nails and talk about boys?”

The absurdity of the situation almost makes Anita laugh. Loba sits on the couch like a throne, one leg crossed over the other, occasionally sipping at her glass. Her eyes don’t leave the Sergeant for a moment. Anita downs her glass in one go, putting it on the counter with a thud. She reaches for the window to pull it shut, lock it, and close the curtains.

_Don_ _’t make me regret this, Andrade._

“I don’t do _boys_ ” Anita shakes her head again. Ridiculous. Yet, there’s no indication she intends to go back to her bedroom, instead moving to sit across from Loba in the chair, sighing when she leans back into the cushion. Out of habit, her hand reaches for the remote on the coffee table, turning on the television with the volume on low. The TV brightens the room marginally; it’s enough of a distraction from the situation at hand. She doesn’t trust Loba to be left alone, without supervision. “I don’t do _men_ either.” 

It might be one detail too many. But maybe, it’s better than the silence that normally fills the apartment.

“Ooh, now I know at least _one_ personal thing about you, but… I’m not surprised.”

“What gave it away?” Anita asks dryly; if this is going to be the small talk all evening, she’s considering going to bed after all, and hoping her possessions stay where they are.

“A few things. Mainly, I’ve seen the way you look at me… it wasn’t always in anger.”

“Uhuh.” The thought makes Anita’s brows knit; the tiredness in her eyes makes them hurt, even sitting in dim light. Yet, she can’t bring herself to take her attention away from Loba. Curiosity kills the cat, or so the phase goes. “You like making shit up as you go?”

“Please. I tell it like it is,” Loba pauses to finish off her glass of water, smacking her lips with a satisfied ‘ _ah!_ _’_ afterwards. “And you let your eyes wander places they probably shouldn’t.”

Anita snorts.

“Hard not to with an outfit like that, _Thigh Highs_.” The old nickname makes a return. The situation that has them here isn’t ideal – for _either_ of them – but for a moment, Anita forgets, letting herself play into this game. One part curiosity; another part **temptation.** “But, let’s say you _are_ paying enough attention. What else have you noticed?”

“Oh, are we doing _20 questions_ now?” Loba laughs, airy and light – ironic, for someone with their life on the line. For all they know, the _demonio_ could come clambering in through the door, guns blazing, eager for that lifelong kill. Yet, she feels at ease in the Sergeant’s presence. Almost as if she _might_ trust her.

_Maybe_.

“And here I thought you weren’t up for sleepover games.”

“Suppose it’s better than sitting in dead silence,” Anita shrugs, leaning back further into her chair. Knees apart, one arm on each of the chair’s; she’s oddly relaxed, despite tiredness weighing down her shoulders. “So… what else?”

“Well,” Loba takes her time to think – they have plenty, after all. The night is still relatively young, at least by the city’s standards. Too many are out at places like Mirage’s bar, with few cares in the world. None of _them_ have to worry about being hunted down and murdered. “You play a big game, Sergeant. Confident with every weapon you get your hands on. But off the battlefield? There’s a _woman_ behind all of _that_. Unfortunately, I don’t know her very well, but… “

“You’d like to?”

“Hm. Maybe.”

“Thought you didn’t trust anyone?”

“If they don’t prove they’re worthy of it, no. But this… counts for something, I think.” Loba answers with a small smile, a brief glimpse of teeth between painted lips. Anita smiles in return. “Your turn,” Loba announces. She decides to get up, making her way towards Anita ever so cautiously, gradually sitting on the arm of the chair, facing the other woman. “Tell me something: do _you_ **trust** me?”

Anita doesn’t laugh this time, turning herself just enough to look up at Loba. The smell of her perfume is just faint enough to be noticeable – a warm, intoxicating scent. Her nails dig into her own thigh; her chest feels tight. This is a dangerous game that they play, above and beyond the Apex arena.

One wrong move could be the ultimate mistake.

_And yet_ …

“That depends,” Anita begins. Every word is carefully chosen. Play this right, and well… “You gonna use me like you did with everyone else?”

“Ooh,” Loba sucks in air through her teeth. “I’m _offended_ you think I’d do that to you,” Her playful tone returns, if only momentarily. She hasn’t forgotten the impact on the others that her vendetta brought. _It_ _’s the entire reason she_ _’s here._ “No. I wouldn’t be _here_ if this was for my own gain,” Here, meaning the way she’s brought herself across the proverbial No Man’s Land of Anita’s living room, right into ‘enemy’ territory. “I’m a dead woman walking; if I can have a little bit of _fun_ before I meet my end, then why shouldn’t I?”

“This your idea of a _gift_ for giving you a couch to crash on?”

“ **No** , I don’t pay for favours like that.” Loba says firmly; there is no room for conflating this with her proposed ‘gift.’ “This…” Slowly, her hand reaches downwards to Anita’s thigh, just at the top of her knee. The way Loba’s acrylic nails lightly rake against her skin sends chills down her spine. They’re closer than ever, now. “This is all me.”

Those _baby browns_ peer into her own; if it weren’t for the murmuring voices from the TV, she’d swear the sound of her heart beating would drown out everything else entirely.

_Anita, get it together_.

“Is that all you got?” She whispers – all she needs is a single confirmation. A go ahead. Something that tells her this is real as it gets. Fraternization doesn’t count when it’s off-duty – less so, when it’s with the _enemy._

“What more do you need?” Loba’s voice in turn lowers. Her intentions seem clear enough, but Anita’s hesitation forces more… _drastic_ measures. Slowly, carefully, Loba lowers herself from the arm of the chair, instead, deliberately moving to straddle Anita’s lap, gauging for her reaction as her knees come to rest next to Anita’s thighs. “Do you get it now?” Loba inquires as she leans forward with her arms bracing her weight at the back of the chair, at either side of Anita’s head. Their faces remain only inches apart.

“Say it…” Anita’s order comes softly, so unlike herself in the arena – even in the dim light, they’re close enough that she can easily see the finer details of Loba’s features. The way her makeup has started to fade from its initial application; the little hairs along the start of her braid that can’t be convinced to stay put; the way she licks her lips…

“I want… you.” Loba punctuates each word breathlessly; they’re close enough now that Anita can _feel_ Loba’s breath on her skin, and _God_ , there’s no turning back. Her hands finally spring into action, reaching up to take the sides of Loba’s face in her palms, leaning up just enough to close the gap. Their lips come together like thunder and lighting – a clash of dominance and power. Every motion of the kiss deepens with both parts desire and desperation; Anita’s hands slide along Loba’s body, learning her every curve beneath the corset.

One hand slips between them, palming against the apex of Loba’s thighs. Even beneath the fabric, she can feel the warmth emanating from her centre. Loba’s head tilts back just enough, a sigh escaping past her lips.

_Touch me_.

Anita’s hand continues with a little _help_ from the way Loba moves her hips – a slow, heaving forward and backward motion. Even with fabric between them, the contact is intoxicating. When Loba leans in, capturing Anita’s lips with hers again, her own hand reaches to guide Anita’s to the hem of her trousers. It takes little encouragement for the Sergeant to follow through with the silent order, pulling the hem down enough to slip her hand past it. The combined sensation of hair tickling her wrist and wet warmth at the tips of her fingers makes Anita’s breath catch in her throat – and paint her face with that telltale _cocky_ smirk.

“You’re either easy or you’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout this for a while,” Anita murmurs against Loba’s mouth. In return, Loba bites down on her lower lip, not hard but enough to _sting_ a little.

_Ouch_. 

“Shut up,” Loba retorts between heady breaths that barely hide the low groan in the back of her throat. Anita’s fingers make quick work of her, teasing at her clit before sliding down further, reaching just enough to push inside of her – it elicits a gasp from Loba before her hips push against her hand – demanding _more_. Anita’s head turns to pay mind to her neck, lips and tongue outlining along the lines of her tattoo. She intends to leave her mark, just below the collar – a claim only to be known and shared by the two of them, for this night only.

Or so Anita _assumes._

“Fuck,” Loba curses beneath her breath; her back arches, driving her thrusts deeper – yet Anita won’t give into the demand. It drives her nearly to the edge of doing it _herself_ but what fun would that be? She won’t beg for it, but _damnit_ , she wants to.

It’s all in Sergeant Williams’ control.

“You’re a hot mess,” Anita remarks beneath her breath; she can _feel_ Loba tense around the tips of her fingers, getting closer and closer. It’s remarkable how little has made her give in so much; yet, Anita isn’t satisfied with just this. She pulls her hand away suddenly; Loba inhales sharply, a gasp piercing the near silence of the apartment and her hand lifts to slap Anita against the cheek – a reaction that only makes Anita _laugh_.

“Aw, were you close?” Anita teases with a grin – the sting across her cheek acts as further encouragement. A little _pain_ goes with pleasure.

“You bitch,” Loba scowls with frustration, letting her head drop back for a moment’s reprieve. However, it doesn’t last long; the world beneath her – or rather, Anita Williams – shifts her weight, wrapping her arms around Loba’s waist. Her attention returns sharply, but before she can even question it, Anita rises to her feet, keeping Loba afloat in her arms. Instinctively, her legs wrap around the soldier’s waist.

“What are you –”

“I got you,” Anita reassures firmly, making her way towards her bedroom. Like a tactician of the battlefield, she has a plan; their lips meet again when Loba’s back hits the mattress (firm, almost _too damn firm_ for her liking, but it’ll do). Hard and heavy. Anita only pulls away to take off her shirt, leaving her chest bare – her physique resembles that of an ancient goddess, perfectly sculpted, piece by piece. Bracing her weight above Loba, Anita gasps for breath in the breaks between their eager, desperate kisses. “You’re way _overdressed,_ _”_ she quips with that familiar, confident chuckle. “Take it off.”

“Yes, _ma_ _’am_ ,” Loba pushes herself upright, pushing Anita backwards in the same motion. First, her jacket slides from each shoulder, and a hand reaches behind her to undo the strings of her corset. Even in the dark, Anita’s eyes fixate as the garment loosens, bit by bit. Finally freed from its hold, Loba swings her legs over the edge of the bed to remove the last of her clothes – met by calloused hands gripping her curves, and hungry lips at the nape of her neck.

It would be a _lie_ to say she wasn’t enjoying the attention.

“Careful, _Sergeant_. Someone might mistake you having a _tender streak,_ _”_ Loba purrs beneath her breath, finally stepping out of her boots – taking care to put the holster carrying her pistol on the nightstand. It would be foolish to let her guard down _completely_. Her attention returns to Loba, and the other woman’s hands are already reaching for the waistband of her shorts.

“Off,” Loba instructs, tugging down on the material enough before Anita is able to step out of them. Her eyes settle on _all_ of the thief bared before her; she’s _beautiful_ , but Anita’s not about to let herself slip and give away a compliment for free. Soon enough, she pulls Loba with her to bed again in a flurry of heated kisses. The sharp ends of Loba’s acrylic nails rake against the back of her head where her hair is shortest. The sensation itself arouses her, barely muffling her moan with another deeper kiss. When her nails travel down the length of her neck and over her shoulders, Anita has to stop herself for a moment, knuckles tight against her bed sheets.

It’s a battle of wits – learning what makes the other tick _first_ – and she’s _losing_ , judging by that feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Reaching ahead to her bedside table, she easily pulls the drawer open; she doesn’t even have to look to know what she’s after, pulling out the leather harness and its _attachment_. When they next part to catch their breath, Anita pushes herself back on her knees, holding up the harness, gauging for Loba’s approval.

“Oh?” Loba’s lips purse together; it’s a _tempting_ sight before her with Anita Williams’ stripped bare, all muscles and tattoos, holding up _quite_ the length. “You really know how to treat a girl, hm?” Loba sits up, one finger lightly tracing along Anita’s jawline, over her lip, and down her chin, dragging the edge of her nail along the soldier’s throat. 

“I know a thing or two,” Anita whispers, just loud enough for Loba to hear. She makes quick work of putting on the harness, making sure the buckles ride tight to her hips, and the leather straps lay flat. It isn’t her first rodeo, but the first in a _while_. She intends to position herself above Loba once more, but a hand on her chest stops her.

“On your back, _Sergeant_ ,” She insists. Anita’s lip curls into a smirk. Not a part of _her_ plan, but one she doesn’t mind changing up for. Her back hits the mattress and Loba straddles her hips.

_What a view_.

Anita reaches to brace her hands on Loba’s thighs but is soon swatted away.

“You can watch, but don’t touch.”

“Guess I’m just here for the ride, huh?” Anita laughs, holding her hands up before letting them drop. Her tongue swipes the front of her teeth, propping her head with one arm behind her head. But she soon falls silent when Loba adjusts herself to take the length of the strap-on, slowly until she feels comfortable. She starts with gradual, undulated thrusts. The leather harness creaks with the motion, and the weight of the other woman presses against her centre, causing enough friction that makes Anita bite down on her lip. It’s not enough on its own, but it still feels _good_.

The rhythm picks up the pace; Loba’s head tilts back. The girth of the strap alone does _wonders_ for her body but finishing too quickly would simply be _unsatisfying_. Instead, she maintains a pace that won’t put her over the edge – never breaking eye contact with Anita. Her captive audience of one looks breathless, despite only just _laying_ there.

Eventually, Loba’s hands come to press against Anita’s chest, right against her sternum. They act as a brace for when she starts to move her hips harder, faster, _deeper_. There’s a point in which even the strongest willed women can no longer hold back to pleasure, and Loba is no exception. Her soft moans fill the silence of the room. Her eyes screw shut.

_She_ _’s so damn close_.

That look. That look alone makes Anita’s thighs quiver. Standing by is just too much. It’s not her _style_. With fast acting hands, she grips Loba’s hips, and uses her weight to turn them over while still staying inside of her. Almost naturally, Loba’s legs wrap around Anita’s waist, drawing her as deep as she can go. It’s all Anita needs to resume the same pace, the same _intensity._ Sweat builds at her temples. Glances are only given in passing before Loba pulls herself flush against Anita, burying her face in the crook of the soldier’s neck. Her teeth find flesh there, barely muffling the series of moans that signify her orgasm. Her hot, shuddering breath tickles Anita’s neck, but her pace hardly lets up until that quiet voice in her ear tells her to stop.

Even “Bangalore”, at the peak of her fitness and physique, feels that burn of a good work out, the _ache_ in her muscles. She can feel it right in her hips and thighs. It’d been far too long, truth be told.

“Satisfied?” Anita inquires. There’s a rasp in her voice that wasn’t there before. Loba finally lets herself lay back against the pillow, eyes still closed. Still _recovering_.

“Mmm,” She hums finally. Slowly, gradually, Anita pulls out, making quick work of the buckles to set the harness aside. The heat between her thighs feels almost unbearable, at this point, but the question of reciprocation remains at large. She turns to her side of the bed, laying on her back beside Loba. She’s not about to ask, and her hand finds its way between her thighs. She hardly starts touching herself when Loba’s hand reaches over to hers and holds it still.

“Let me take care of you,” She whispers. Anita draws her hand back, and Loba moves on her hands and knees, parting one thigh after the other to rest between them. A few kisses against Anita’s thighs prelude her intentions quite clearly, sliding down to rest on her front as her tongue gracefully teases the length of her cunt. Her fingers lightly spread her folds; her arousal tastes _delicious_.

_Fuck_.

Anita’s fists ball up the bedsheets with her grip; she doesn’t bother to hide her sounds, with low, guttural moans filling the apartment. The sensation makes her toes curl and the longer Loba teases her, the more her hips lift from the bed, silently demanding _more_ from her late-night lover.

Surprisingly, she gives in.

Anita sighs as her head hits back against the pillow, allowing herself to be lost to every ministration until that anticipatory pressure builds enough to finally release. Her back arches as she rides out her orgasm, but Loba doesn’t let up until finally, at last, Anita has to tell – no, _order_ – her to stop.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , enough!” It’s not quite begging if it’s an order, right?

The smack of Loba’s lips signifies she’s finished, slowly unravelling herself from Anita’s thighs to return to her place on the other side of the bed. She’s spent, truly. Minutes of recovery are spent in silence; it isn’t awkward, but the gravity of the situation returns, heavily weighing on both of their shoulders.

This is likely it. A one-time event before Loba jumps ship and gets off-world, and Anita’s still here, fighting for her own one-way ticket back to the IMC homebase. Or at least, what’s left of it. Anita can’t really argue it isn’t what she wanted all along, but this _parting gift_ makes it all a little bit _harder_.

“You got your pistol on my nightside table. I got one in the drawer,” Anita finally says with a bit of a laugh. It isn’t too out of the ordinary to be armed, Loba even more so. “That’s almost… like a real couple.”

The last bit makes Loba laugh. Genuinely, laugh. She shakes her head.

“Maybe I _did_ learn a little something from you after all,” She says but it’s all too soon before she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on her clothes.

“You should stay. At least ‘til daybreak,” Anita says, and try as she might, the concern in her voice can’t be hidden. One might even think she really does care – and she does, to a degree. She never wanted Loba to die – and still doesn’t. That hasn’t changed.

“And what?” Loba glances over her shoulder. She’s only just pulled on her trousers, nothing more. “You want me to cuddle, or something?” She laughs briefly; it’s partly a joke, partly a curiosity.

“You could at least use the sleep,” Anita responds truthfully. “Hell, you _look_ like you could use the sleep. Just for another hour or two. I’d hate to see you mess up ‘cause you’re runnin’ on fumes.”

_She_ _’s got a point._

Loba sighs and pushes aside her boots to be put on later, returning to lay beside Anita. The mattress is too damn firm, but a bed’s a bed, but the comfort comes from knowing she’s not alone.

“I’m _not_ cuddling you,” Loba states _firmly,_ but her grin tells that it’s all in good fun.

“Wasn’t planning on it, _Princess_.”

The red illumination from the clock reads out 0400 hours. Anita remains with her back against the headboard. She’s still wide awake, but she feels assured knowing that Loba can finally get the rest she needs for the day to come. The tail end of the documentary on the TV drones on still; it keeps her awake enough to keep an eye out, with her pistol in reach _just in case_.

_One round in the chamber, gotta do it right._

* * *

Below the apartment complexes, the shadows still cover the dirty dealings of this city in the Outlands. To many, going outside after dark could spell trouble of any variety – a mugging, a beating, a murder. And in those shadows, danger lurks. The sun is an hour out from rising for the day. In the back alley, the low, subtle glow of yellow signifies that someone – or _something_ – is lying in wait.

It… _he_ peers upwards, gauging how many floors he will need to climb. Perhaps the act of surprise may be the wake-up call that his _prey_ needs.


End file.
